


If It Be Your Will to Let Me Sing

by Irrealia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Hardcore BDSM, M/M, No seriously there is not even a tiny shred of plot here, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Shield Brothers, Sub!Dwalin, Top!Thorin, a bit of praise kink, affectionate kink, being shield brothers, bottom!Dwalin, just bondage and caning and gay sex, just really intense, obtaining consent in ways that don't interrupt the flow of play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin has a hard job, guys, but I think we can all agree he's the sort of person who finds taking a beating really relaxing. Thorin gives him exactly that, and then fucks him, and everyone is happy, and everything is good.</p><p>This is not a complicated fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It Be Your Will to Let Me Sing

**Author's Note:**

> The beautiful [Mithrilbikini](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com) prompted me with sub!Dwalin, and then she was good enough to beta and cheerlead. I feel like such a spoilt happy author.
> 
> Any mistakes are of course, entirely mine, and I feel duly ashamed about them.

Dwalin knelt in front of Thorin, laying his axes at his king’s feet. His gaze was directed downwards, and his eyes focused on the fur trim of Thorin’s surcoat, on the great leather straps that criss-crossed his boots.

“I am yours to command, my lord,” he said, and if anyone had been listening, other than Thorin, they might have noticed that his voice seemed unusually muted. Thorin was his king, but also his childhood friend and companion, and he was not typically given to such displays of deference—not where others could see, at any rate.

Thorin took Dwalin’s axes up, weighing each one respectfully in his hands, and then opened a great weapons chest at the foot of his bed, and laid them carefully inside. Then he softly stroked a hand over the fur of Dwalin’s cheek, slipped a finger under his chin, and lifted his face up.

“I command your axes often enough on the battlefield,” said Thorin matter-of-factly. “Today I thought to use you differently.”

Dwalin might have nodded his assent to this proposition, but Thorin’s great strong hand held his chin steady. Talking would have been awkward as well, so he simply looked his king in the eye, letting Thorin read his comprehension directly from his face. In truth, though he and Thorin were nearly the same size, Dwalin was slightly stronger, and the fact that he let Thorin hold him there with no struggle or protest was assent enough.

Thorin released him, and Dwalin obediently lowered his gaze again. “Remove my boots,” said Thorin, and it was no accident that Dwalin was perfectly positioned to do so. His hands were rough and calloused, but clever, and well familiar with Thorin’s boots. He had Thorin in his bare feet on the warm fur rug in a trice, and set aside the boots carefully on the stone floor beside them.

“You always did make a good squire,” mused Thorin fondly. “Surely you remember how to remove my armour.” There was not much reason for Thorin to be wearing armour, save that it was a sign of a king who had won his right to rule by the sword—as indeed Thorin had done at Azanulbizar—and in dwarvish fashion, it also showed off the elaborate metalwork of a sort that only a king might commission. Thorin’s armour was artfully made, but worn, and honestly, not a patch on the sort of things he’d had as a prince in Erebor when they were both young. But it was still the armour of his king, and Dwalin treated it with the reverence it deserved as he obeyed Thorin’s implicit order. First he slid the fur-trimmed surcoat off Thorin’s shoulders. Then he undid the fastenings that held up the heavy blue, steel-plated brigandine that was as functional as it was beautiful, and far heavier than it looked. But the weight was easy for Dwalin to catch, and he slid it off Thorin’s shoulders with a practiced gesture, placing it on top of the weapons chest behind Thorin.

Thorin then stood only in trousers and bare feet; Dwalin himself was still fully clothed, with his own heavy armour intact. In other circumstances it might have made him feel powerful, but in this moment, he only felt awkward, large and clunky in comparison to Thorin, who looked light and wild with his loose hair and his soft underclothes. With a sudden jerk, he knelt again, suddenly feeling some deep need to lower himself, to show Thorin that he _knew_ how big and clumsy a thing he was, that he _knew_ that he required Thorin’s guiding hand.

As if he could guess at the precise meaning of Dwalin’s submissive posture, Thorin strode casually over to his bed and sprawled out upon the furs and blankets that covered it, his eyes burning with an unsettling blue fire as he simply took his time gazing at his strong right hand, knelt humbly before him as if he were the most unworthy of creatures. After a moment Dwalin could scarcely stand to meet his gaze, and lowered his eyes to the rug beneath him, trying to settle himself by focusing on his breath.

Thorin shook his head, and Dwalin could hear the motion of it in the quiet of Thorin’s bedchamber, the soft shaking of beads. “No Dwalin—stand where I can see you,” said Thorin, and though his movements were slow and creaky, Dwalin pushed himself up to his feet. “Strip,” commanded Thorin, and Dwalin found his fingers shaking as they never did in a fight. The more intimate ways that he served his king never failed to fill him with a unique brand of fear. It pounded through his head, quivered through his limbs, and settled awkwardly in the pit of his stomach. Knowing what was coming was inexorably terrible, rather than comforting; that he had somehow volunteered himself for it was worse.

Unbuckling his knuckle-dusters was a tricky task at the best of times; with his trembling, it took easily twice the time. But Thorin watched patiently as he worked them off, then tremulously undid the great leather belts encircling his waist and torso. He sighed with relief as they fell from him, and the next steps—ridding himself of furs and tunic and hauberk—moved along considerably faster. He let his armour and clothing lie where they fell, his own poor possessions meriting none of the consideration that Thorin’s did, until he was perfectly naked. He raised his eyes tentatively; Thorin’s eyes radiated warm approval, edged with something slightly darker.

He shivered. Thorin spoke.

“Since you seem so fond of kneeling, Master Dwalin, I would have you kneel again.”

This time, free of all his encumberments, Dwalin sank to his knees so quickly it might well be described as falling. He heard a sigh of relief, and a soft laugh; the first was his own, the second was Thorin’s. He trained his eyes on the ground again, but he heard the creak of the bed as Thorin rose off it, heard the soft padding sound of Thorin’s feet as he circled around Dwalin’s offered body, until he felt thick but delicate fingers lightly brushing his hair off the back of his neck. “Will I bind you,” asked Thorin, his voice low and soft and all the more dangerous for it, “or can you endure what I will give you without the assistance of bonds?”

Dwalin hesitated, honestly unsure. He had suggested to Thorin—not in so many words, of course—that he needed this, and it was not the first time he had surrendered himself like this. If he was unsure of anything, it was himself, of how far he needed to be taken.

“I will not think less of you if you ask to be bound,” said Thorin, and his voice was more purely soft now. “Bind me, then,” said Dwalin, and Thorin reached into the weapons chest, pulling out wide cuffs of strong leather that he wrapped around Dwalin’s wrists, fastening his arms together in front of him with a sturdy lock. Thorin showed him the key, and then placed it deliberately on the bed, where it wouldn’t be lost. His ankles, too, were similarly cuffed, but spread out instead of forced together with a steel rod locked between them. His knees and his ankles then made a sturdy triangle. The keys to these locks, too, were shown to him, and safely laid beside their brother on the bed.

Thorin removed a few more wicked-looking things from the weapons chest, and then he closed it and covered it with a plush blanket, just in case the sturdy triangle of dwarf in front of him should pitch forward into it. One of his hands stroked over Dwalin’s shoulder, and then for a moment he nearly vanished from Dwalin’s awareness, stood quietly behind him, wholly out of sight. Dwalin could only feel a little extra warmth behind him, so silent and still was Thorin.

He fidgeted, testing his bonds. They were secure, and he did not think they would give, not even if all his strength had been brought to bear on them. Thorin had made them so.

He didn’t know whether to feel safe or frightened. An enemy was one thing—clear-cut, and well understood. A friend was another.

The first thing he felt was the tap of a fresh birch rod on his shoulder, light and almost friendly. He drew his head up—he hadn’t even noticed how, in these moments of seeming solitude, he had let it hang down in contemplation. Then Thorin spoke again, finally.

“You will thank me for this opportunity to serve me, and to demonstrate your discipline and strength.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” said Dwalin, and his own voice sounded far away and strange to him.

The first blow came over his left shoulder, and it burned like fire through his skin, almost as if it could sear the great muscles beneath. The next was a mere parody of the first, a tapping shadow, and so it went on until time transformed, and was counted not in seconds or hours but in the irregular rhythm of taps and blows. The map of his body was redrawn under Thorin’s ministrations, great red borderlines cutting across his shoulders and upper back.

And then Thorin paused. Dwalin’s back still burned, but less urgently. His breath came in great huffs. He could feel Thorin kneeling behind him, one arm wrapping around his breast, holding him tightly, whilst the other traced lightly over the raised welts that now covered his back, admiring his design.

“A noble dwarf of Durin’s line indeed,” murmured Thorin in his ear, “to endure so much.” His hand moved up from Dwalin’s back to brush his hair aside again, to rub at the tense muscles of his strong thick neck. “It seems you even find pleasure in it.” The hand that had clasped his breast moved downward through the forest of Dwalin’s chest and belly, and took firm hold of Dwalin’s cock, which had somehow, in the course of their proceedings, risen to stand stiff and throbbing. Dwalin shuddered in his bonds, in Thorin’s arms, but Thorin’s hand was pitiless, and stroked him until he thought he might spill then and there. He begged Thorin over and over again in a rough voice, but the only word he could utter was “please,” and not even Dwalin himself knew whether he was pleading for Thorin to stop or to continue.

Thorin stopped.

“Can you take more?” he asked, his voice still barely more than a whisper, his breath warm against Dwalin’s ear. Dwalin didn’t trust his voice, but he gave a shaky nod. As if it were a magic spell, Thorin’s warmth and presence vanished beside him. He heard the switch swish through the air a few times behind him, and then Thorin began again, tormenting the strong planes of his arse. His flesh was softer there, but his body was already so abuzz with pain, with the thwarted urge to fight back, that it hardly mattered if the strokes that Thorin gave him were a little softer now. Dwalin was in no fit state to observe the difference; what mattered was that they served to stoke the fires of his inner forge, to make the flames burn higher within and without as Thorin lashed him over and over again.  His cock stood hard and heavy between his legs, persistent in its arousal, and his whole body throbbed with his pulse, his blood roused.

The world receded. There was only this, there had only ever been this. Thorin scourged him, and Dwalin endured. Moment to moment, Dwalin endured.

There was only this, until it ended. With his blood singing in his ears, Dwalin didn’t even notice Thorin stopping, setting the switch aside. All he knew is that he was suddenly adrift, bereft. He made a small keening noise; in a fraction of a moment, Thorin was back at his side, holding him as before. Dwalin’s head flopped onto Thorin’s shoulder, and he looked up at his lord and master with heavy-lidded eyes that struggled to focus on Thorin’s sharp features. But Thorin was steady; one hand held Dwalin’s back whilst the other caressed his beard and turned his face to Thorin’s for a soft kiss.

The kiss was a small aeon of pleasure. Then time turned, and Thorin was soothing the welts that fair covered Dwalin from his thighs to his shoulders. On the top they were clean and evenly spaced, and Thorin’s soothing fingers drew out geometric patterns as he applied healing salve that had come from…. well, somewhere, surely, but understanding where things came from was beyond Dwalin in the moment. As Thorin’s hands moved downward, the pattern fell apart, and instead he smoothed the salve over Dwalin’s arse and the tops of his thighs in great massaging circles, murmuring soft things that were probably words whilst allowing Dwalin’s weight to fall slack against him.

Then Thorin’s slippery fingers were dipping into the salve again to lubricate them that much more thoroughly; thus prepared, he nudged apart the inflamed flesh before him. His other hand stroked Dwalin’s beard affectionately. “This is not meant to be endured,” said Thorin, his deep, sonorous voice another kind of caress. “Will you serve my pleasure too?” Dwalin nodded, insofar as he could compel any of his body to do anything in particular at this point, and his hapless languor earned him a low chuckle from Thorin that Dwalin felt more than heard, a soft vibration that thrummed through them both. He instead attempted to convey his cooperation by bending himself over the fur-covered chest, but his arms were bound in front of him, and Thorin pulled him back upright with another laugh.

Thorin’s hands then moved to the lock that held Dwalin’s arms, retrieving the key from the edge of the bed. Slick as his fingers were, it was a difficult thing, but Thorin had clever hands and it was not _too_ long before he had Dwalin’s arms free—although he left the cuffs in place. Dwalin had not realised how stiff his arms had become, and gave a few grateful stretches. Thorin then pressed him down, into the soft blanket over the weapons chest, and covered his fingers liberally with the the salve again. One hand caressed Dwalin’s back soothingly, encouragingly, whilst the fingers of the other found their way inside slowly, but relentlessly. One finger breached him, and Dwalin groaned at the sensation: pleasurable, but alien, intrusive; unbearably intimate; perennially novel. A second finger joined its brother, and then he could feel Thorin rocking against him in time with the careful thrust of his hand. His cock, too, was hard as stone, and Dwalin could clearly feel it pressed against him through Thorin’s soft trousers. “Please,” he groaned again, and Thorin responded with a purr and a third finger.

“No _please_ ,” begged Dwalin.

“Do you mean ‘no’ or ‘please’? asked Thorin, his tone deceptively light as he gave a great thrust with all three of his fingers and held them in place whilst Dwalin squirmed against him. “Both,” Dwalin moaned, too far gone to think he might somehow be debasing himself—a dwarf lord of Durin’s royal line—for pleading for his king’s cock, for fucking himself back onto Thorin’s fingers, for the raw need that animated him.  Thorin let him squirm for a long moment that seemed even longer, and then he slowly withdrew.

As unusual as it had felt to be penetrated, Dwalin found that it was almost _unbearable_ to be left empty. But soon enough he felt Thorin’s breadth and bulk behind him, Thorin’s hard cock pressed against the abused plane of his back, of his arse. They were both covered in the greasy salve now; Thorin’s sticky, oily fingers grabbed his cuffed wrists with an unexpectedly quick motion and locked them back together, behind him.

He craned his neck backward, eyes black with pleasure, searching out Thorin’s. They both knew that he was the stronger one, and they both knew that he was bound so securely that what slight advantage he had in strength was of no more consequence, not in his current position.

They both knew that he’d wanted it that way, but it didn't make his current sense of utter helplessness any less dreadful or wonderful.

And then Thorin began to press in. There was an inevitability about it, observed the last small part of Dwalin’s mind capable of such thought. He had endured a great trial, and here was his reward; he had suffered a great defeat, and here was his surrender. It was his service to his king, his offering of trust to his shield brother, and it was their mutual undecorated and obscene desire.

Dwalin’s eyes widened at the sound of _Thorin_ groaning with pleasure—Thorin who had also been denied, whilst he laboured for Dwalin’s sake. Dwalin pushed back onto Thorin’s cock and was chastened for his effort with a firm slap on his ass. “Hold still,” admonished Thorin, who then began to _move_. There was no more room for thought then at all, only sensation. Dull pain as Thorin’s stout fingers dug into his hips; pleasure that thrummed through some deep and secret part of him, building slowly with every thrust, like the tide rolling in. There was the slow stretching of his arms, bound behind him, the rhythmic slap of Thorin’s thighs against his arse, the awkward yet pleasurable grind of his cock against the blanket where it was trapped underneath him. His knees ached; he’d been kneeling for some time now. Moans filled the air, hovering around them like a fog that thickened as Thorin’s pace grew more frantic.

Feeling _all of it_ was literally the only thing he could do, bound by Thorin, penetrated by Thorin, and so he felt. The tide rolled in, pitiless, sensation breaking over him like waves on the side of tall stone cliffs, and some piece of him crumbled, the slow start of a rockslide, and he came and he came and he came, writhing and falling to pieces where Thorin had him pinned, his trapped cock spilling against his belly, and Thorin rode him endlessly through it all, for so long that Dwalin thought it might never stop, for so long that his tears stained the blanket that cradled his head.

And yet, once he had finally calmed, surrendered himself as wholly as he could, Thorin sped up, and crouched over Dwalin as he fucked into him, gripping at his shoulders, nibbling at his neck. “So good for me,” he panted out, and the exhausted muscles of Dwalin’s face still managed to curve into a tiny smile at that. Thorin’s breath was rough against Dwalin’s ear, and grew only rougher as Thorin indulged in his service, pounding against him in a way that might have been brutal, if not for the aftershocks of pleasure, and the satisfaction he derived from the plain evidence of Thorin’s ecstasy.

The rhythm broke at last, after a long crescendo, and Thorin’s fingers bored into the thick muscles of Dwalin’s shoulders as he held on, his own pleasure rending him, wrenching a shout from him. Then at long last he pulled himself off of Dwalin and rolled over, draping himself over the weapons chest that had supported Dwalin’s ordeal, making a matched pair of them.

For a while they knelt like that together, and breathed.

Then Dwalin was vaguely aware of Thorin fumbling about on the bed above them; keys were produced, and soon enough, Thorin had Dwalin entirely unbound, and had rolled him onto the soft fur rug, and shortly thereafter was curled up behind him, arms wrapped around him.

“You’ll want a bath, I think,” murmured Thorin against the shell of Dwalin’s ear, when words seemed to make sense again. “Can’t have you sore, or I’ll have to let you off duty tomorrow.”

Dwalin chuckled quietly in Thorin’s arms. “And that’s the last thing I want,” he replied, his tongue thick in his mouth but not so lax that he was still incapable of speech. “Can’t have some other sod guarding you. They wouldn’t do it right.”

“We’ve not many dwarrows as strong or as fierce as you,” acknowledged Thorin. “And not so many who are eager to take my cock like that either.” Dwalin laughed even more heartily at that, caught between emotions as a residual kind of modesty reasserted itself, and his cheeks flushed bright red within his royal cocoon.

“Aye, I should think not,” he agreed, without elaboration, and Thorin pressed a kiss to each one of the tattoos on the top of his head. “I would never begrudge you any service,” he added, some moments later.

“Nor would I,” replied Thorin, who stood and offered Dwalin a hand, tugging him up and into the bath.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on Tumblr at [@irrealis](http://irrealis.tumblr.com), feeling every feel that can be felt about Thorin Oakenshield, and fanning myself whilst staring at pictures of Richard Armitage.
> 
> Title from Leonard Cohen's "[If It Be Your Will](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mqhuNrdwFw)."


End file.
